


It Just May Be A Happy New Year

by Mildredo



Category: Queer as Folk (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-31
Updated: 2011-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-28 15:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mildredo/pseuds/Mildredo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stuart was a grown up, and he had been doing this for twenty eight years. He was going to start the twenty ninth year properly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Just May Be A Happy New Year

**Author's Note:**

> It's 11:40pm on New Years Eve. So I decided to write fic about what the boys are doing right now. That's normal, right? So, yeah, I wrote this really quickly and it's probably full of typos and shit but I wanted to get it out before midnight.
> 
> Title is from "Happy New Year" from RENT.

“I hate New Years Eve” Stuart groaned, placing his wine on the table with more force than necessary, causing some to splash over the sides. He dropped onto a stool next to Hazel and began mopping the spilt drink with a serviette.  “Everyone pretending to be positive about the new year when everyone knows it’s just going to be exactly the same shit. Making new year’s resolutions, it’s bullshit. And that fucking end-of-the-world bollocks they keep going on about for next year? It won’t be a moment too soon if this bunch of twats is what society has been reduced to.”

“Someone’s grumpy because all the pretty young boys think he’s old and decrepit” Alex smirked, taking a smug mouthful of his drink when Stuart just glared and didn’t even attempt a witty comeback.

“You _are_ technically old enough to be their dad” Bernie chuckled, thoroughly enjoying Stuart’s misery. Hazel just rubbed him reassuringly on the back.

“Now, now, Bernie, don’t be cruel. Accurate, but cruel.”

Stuart moved his glare to Hazel.

“You can talk, _Grandma_.”

Hazel shuddered and brought her hand up to slap the back of Stuart’s head. Alfie gave a sleepy laugh from his position, curled up nearly asleep next to Alex, and Stuart’s glare turned to an amused smile.

“Don’t you _dare_ , it’s bad enough Alfie calling me that when he wants something. I’m not even sixty yet, and you’d do well to remember it.”

“You don’t look a day over fifty eight” Stuart grinned, downing his wine in one and standing up, kissing Hazel on the head.

“I’m fifty seven, you little bastard” Hazel called after him as he stalked away again.

 

Stuart leaned against the wall and just watched. Watched as teenagers who reminded him far too much of himself and Vince at that age edged around nervously, wanting to join in but too scared to try. Watched as couples slipped into the toilets together, no indication of whether they’d been together twenty years or twenty minutes. Watched as people drank and danced and slipped packets of various illegal substances between them. Watched faces he knew and faces he had never seen. Nathan was around somewhere, probably on shag number three of the night by now, if Stuart had taught him anything about being the king. Stuart’s days of being twenty seven and shagging everything in sight were long, long gone. He was officially _old_. His hair was becoming flecked with grey, and _of course_ he’d had a fucking allergic reaction the first time he’d tried to dye it and ended up in hospital half-dead. He could spend a large portion of his life drinking like a fish and taking whatever dodgy narcotics he could get his hands on, but it was his vanity that nearly ended him. He’d hoped the grey might make him look distinguished, but it just made him look old. There were wrinkles around his eyes and over his forehead, which he didn’t dare Botox after the hair dye fiasco. It took fucking ages to get a hard on, a good few minutes where it used to be instant, and he knew that was still pretty quick but that _wasn’t the point_. He was old.

But, if Stuart was old, that made Vince old too. But Vince, like a fine wine or a good cheese or some other shit simile, had aged incredibly well. A fact which was driven home harder when Stuart realised Vince was dancing with the same twenty year old twat who had laughed him off not ten minutes earlier. _Bastard_.

He wasn’t having it. People started a countdown and, whoop-de-fucking-do, it was nearly midnight. The twenty year old twat was still hanging over Vince, and Stuart couldn’t help but push off of the wall and through the crowd. Because he was Stuart Alan Jones, forty two fucking years old with a twelve year old son and a house and a car and a job that paid him too much money for not enough work. He was a grown up, and he had been doing this for twenty eight long, _fucking long_ years. He was going to start the twenty ninth year properly.

He reached Vince and the twenty year old twat at _five_. He pulled the twenty year old twat off of Vince at _four_. He wrapped his arms tightly around Vince’s waist at _three_. He felt hands on either side of his face at _two_. He kissed Vince at _one_ and didn’t stop until Auld Lang Syne had finished. And then kissed him again.


End file.
